Halo: Necessary Evil
Part One: Burning Plains Prologue A quiet exile. That was what Ger ‘Hullen had resigned himself to, punishment for the crime of choosing the wrong side in war. Banished far from his keep on Sanghelios and forced into subservience to honorless humans, he had almost forgotten the pride he had once felt as a warrior of the might Covenant Empire. To think that I actually count myself among these vermin, he thought bitterly. But now, standing in the troop bay of a human-made Pelican dropship, Ger felt a twinge of his old warrior’s pride returning. Surrounded by subordinates and racing towards a hunt—a hunt at his command—he could almost recall the years past when he had led lances of his brother Sangheili into battle against their worthy foes. Almost. “We’re coming in on the building now.” The human voice crackling over the dropship’s intercom grated Ger’s nerves, reminding him of the ugly truth: this was not the Covenant and he was not leading warriors. This wasn’t even a proper war. “Get off my bird as quick as you can, I’ve got four more runs to get to.” Ger tapped the com unit at his armor’s collar. “Understood,” he replied. The human words felt coarse and ugly coming out of his mandibles, yet another reminder of how low he had fallen. His human employers could not even be bothered to outfit him with translation devices. “All of you, get ready to move!” The mixed group of humans and Kig-Yar with him in the Pelican bay mumbled affirmatives and checked their weapons. Ger looked away from their sloppy appearance and even sloppier discipline, barely able to stomach the quality of fighters he was now forced to lead. Humans and Kig-Yar might not look alike but they shared the same repulsive lust for profits that drove nearly every aspect of their degenerate societies. Unfortunately, that greed seemed to be what ruled the galaxy now that the Covenant was gone. Perhaps that was why the humans and Kig-Yar got along so well, especially on this planet called Venezia. Ger checked his own weapons. The plasma pistol at his hip and the repeater slung over his back were both fully charged, as was his energy sword. The blade was one of Ger’s most prized possessions, among the few things left of the keep and bloodline he had been forced to leave behind on Sanghelios. His armor—a relic of his service in the armies of the Covenant—was a similar reminder of his lost pride. Unlike the other Sangheili sharing his exile from their people, Ger took extra care to keep the armor in prime condition, as if this were still the Covenant and an inspection could be made at any time. Some might see his pride as useless vanity, but to Ger it was all he had left. Some day he would leave this disgusting planet behind and return to his people. When that day came, he would prove that he had never forgotten his honor as a warrior. The Pelican’s engines whined as the dropship lurched down to land. The humans and Kig-Yar scrambled to find handholds, but Ger ignored the lurching and strode towards the open bay door. The cool evening air washed over his face. Outside, the ground rushed up to meet him. The decrepit buildings surrounding the landing zone cast lengthening shadows across the pavement. Venezia’s capital city of New Tyne was hardly a gleaming metropolis but the slums on its outskirts were even worse. Ger had known Unggoy villages that were better maintained. Ger stepped off the Pelican before it had even fully touched down, his powerful legs easily absorbing the impact. He strode forward imperiously as the others scrambled to disembark behind him. More armed fighters—Ger would not dare think of them as soldiers, much less warriors—milled about in the streets surrounding the landing zone. Most of these were humans, though Ger could see a handful of Kig-Yar and even a few hulking Jiralhanae among them. Most of the fighters had their weapons trained on one solitary building: a run-down tenement that might once have been a housing complex. From the way the structure looked about to collapse, Ger assumed it was abandoned, though he wouldn’t put it past human dregs to still be sheltering inside like insects beneath a rock. If the war had taught him anything about his former enemies, it was that they would hide anywhere. One of the humans broke off from the makeshift siege as the Pelican lifted off. Though tall for a human, he was still dwarfed by Ger. Most humans found the difference in stature intimidating, but this one seemed not to mind. Ger usually had difficulty telling humans apart, but he knew this one from his shaved head and the broad scar running from the man’s ear down to his neck. “About time you showed up,” the human said in greeting, falling into step beside Ger. “You stop for drinks at the bar?” “Ramos,” Ger said curtly. The human’s overly familiar tone irked him, but he had worked with this particular man in the past. Ramos was at the very least a capable fighter in his own right, one of the few on Venezia Ger could actually rely on as a subordinate. “Why haven’t you stormed the building yet? Were you waiting for me to arrive?” Ramos shook his head. “I’ve got a couple teams circling around the back to cut off the side alleys. Got a few sharpshooters covering the upper stories as well. If he tries to make a run for it, we’ll light him up.” “Are you sure he’s still in the building?” Ger demanded. “If I lead a charge on an empty room, heads will roll.” Ramos was unperturbed by the threat, though he had worked with Ger enough times in the past to know that it was not an empty one. Ger could respect that about him at the least. “He’s in there. Kept taking potshots at us from the windows. Killed a few guys before the sharpshooters pinned him down.” Ger glanced around at the fighters around them. There had to be at least twenty here, along with the ones who had come with him on the Pelican. “All this effort for one renegade?” he asked. “Who are we dealing with here?” Ramos shook his head. “Some local enforcer. Used to handle wet work for the Syndicate, at least until he pissed them off. A few of the guys say he’s called ‘Stray,’ but the way they tell it he’s a nobody.” “Stray.” A human word for an animal without a master. Homeless, dirty, unwanted. “And yet they have thirty of us here for a nobody,” Ger noted as they approached a human truck parked around the corner from the besieged tenement. A pair of humans stepped aside to allow them access to a small table crammed with computers and communications equipment. Ramos moved up and tapped a quick sequence into the center monitor. “Hey, don’t look at me,” the man said with a shrug. “You think I want to be stuck out here all night over one guy? I just want to kill this guy, get paid, and hit the bars. Just give me a sec here and I’ll patch you in to the boss.” Ger folded his arms across his chest and waited as Ramos bent over the monitors. A few moments later the man nodded and addressed someone on the screen. “Yes sir, he just arrived,” Ramos said, tone far more deferential than the one he had used with Ger. “One moment, sir, I’ll put him on.” Ramos stepped back, giving Ger space to step forward and face the monitor. The Sangheili looked down to see the image of another human smiling up at him. This man was well dressed—by human standards—with a broad face and a shock of white hair. Ger recognized him immediately: Min Ai, the human in charge of Syndicate operations in and around New Tyne. There were no underworld dealings here that went on without Min Ais’ knowledge or approval. Not even the local authorities dared oppose the Syndicate. “Ger,” Min said warmly. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.” Ger eyed his employer, forcing himself to remain civil. Min Ai was an amiable creature, considering the power he wielded. A Sangheili in his position would have taken its own life before addressing subordinates in such a relaxed manner. Such informality was perceived as a weakness; weakness invited assassination attempts. But Ger understood that humans like Min Ai saw things differently. This human’s relaxed demeanor was as much an expression of power as a Sangheili warlord’s aloofness. "You called me in to kill one human?" he asked impatiently. "One... stray?" Min chuckled. "Yes, I understand it seems a bit extreme. But I'd rather not take any chances with this one." "Why are we hunting him?" "Stray was one of my contractors," Min explained, leaning back in his seat. Wherever he was calling from, it was somewhere with luxuriously padded seats. Most likely one of the lavish restaurants in the center of New Tyne where Min and his kind liked to conduct business. "Young, but the kid did good work. At least until ten of our local dealers and destroyed one of my arms shipments." "Destroyed?" There was no profit in destroyed goods. Ger's estimation of his prey rose slightly. The destruction was clearly intended to send a message. Perhaps this was no mere scavenger he was dealing with. Perhaps there are some real warriors on this miserable planet after all. "Why did he betray you?" Min shrugged. "No idea. It's a shame; I rather liked the kid. But this is business. I can't let this set a bad example for my employees. Kill Stray, then bring the body back in for identification." Ger nodded. "How much of an example are you looking to make?" "No need to drag it out. Stray might be an ugly little runt, but he's a dangerous fighter. Go in hard, go in serious, and kill him as quickly as possible." This was the way things worked out here, far from the workings of galactic politics and real warfare. The humans on this world of Venezia had declared independence from their homeworld, defiantly claiming it as their own even as the Earth government's power spread through the galaxy. But the government here was weak compared to the influence of the Syndicate, which spread its vile tendrils across a galaxy made weak by decades of warfare and the collapse of the Covenant. To humans, the Syndicate was a criminal force outside the laws that governed their society. To vermin like the Kig-Yar, it was profit. And to an outcast warrior like Ger 'Hullen, it was simply the only way he could continue pretending that he was still a warrior. Ger had learned years ago that the Syndicate's power lay in its lack of the same rules that constrained most galactic powers. The Syndicate did not care what species you were, what you worshiped, or what cause you supported. All that mattered was its ability to pull you into its cold machinations and stamp out a profit. Those who didn't benefit its system were crushed underfoot. Perhaps this Stray had simply tired of swimming in the Syndicate's mud. "Understood." Ger reached over and flicked off the monitor. He glanced over at Ramos. "You heard him. Get this rabble ready to attack. Wait for my order." Ramos nodded and jogged off, waving for the Syndicate detachment to prepare for the assault. The enforcers dragged their feet, taking their time and making their displeasure at this menial assignment known. Had this been a Covenant force Ger would have shot a few to motivate the others. But this was Venezia and he was leading a rabble of criminal killers whose pride extended only as far as their credit accounts. The lack of discipline would cost a few of them their lives and the universe would be no poorer for it. This Stray could at least make that contribution to the galaxy at large before he died. *** They would attack soon. The fiber-optic cable he had fed over to the windowsill piped images of the movement outside into his helmet's head's up display. The Syndicate fighters were massing to charge the front door. Probably the back as well. The sharpshooters that kept him from looking down at the street with his own two eyes would fire indiscriminately to pin him down and make him an easy target for the teams that came in through the door. He leaned back against the corroded wall and let out a hiss of frustration. The events that had landed him in this mess all seemed like a blur now. As usual, he had acted without thinking. And now, like so many times in the past, it looked like that stupidity was about to get him killed. He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on his shotgun. Every muscle in his body was screaming at him to run, and run he would. Soon. Running's what I do best. I've gotten out of worse than this. He opened his helmet's comm channel. "Diana. You'd better answer me this time. I know you're receiving this." "Oh, I can hear you," a sly woman's voice purred in his ear. "Doesn't mean I can do much to help you out of this mess. From the looks of things, you're still about to die." "Very funny. I need you to feed me a map of the area around New Tyne. Someplace I can lay low while this blows over." "So you are thinking of escaping. Not in the mood for a heroic last stand?" "Yeah, no. I'm not gonna die. Not here, not today." "If only you sounded this confident all the time." Diana was enjoying this. She always enjoyed watching him fight for his life. Half the time she was the reason he was getting shot at in the first place. But not this time. He wished things were that simple. "I hope you're ready for some serious running. They really want you dead." "You do your job and I'll do mine, okay?" He was sweating underneath his armor. He was no stranger to abject terror; it was a constant companion in a life that measured from firefight to firefight. "Get me that map." "You do realize that you aren't my only concern right now." The AI's voice never seemed to lose its mocking edge. "I'm a little busy with some other things right now. Be a good boy and wait your turn. Do your best not to die, I'm rooting for you." He terminated the link before she could hear the string of expletives flow from his mouth. There was not much time left. He would have to move soon, before the Syndicate enforcers launched their attack. His body trembled—out of fear, but also out of exhilaration. The beast inside him was struggling to get out. It knew there was killing to be done. He tapped his comms again, this time calling a different frequency. The feed hissed for several moments before a new voice answered. "Are you alright?" she demanded. "Where have you been?" "Depends on how you define alright," he said, checking the safety release on his shotgun and the pistols holstered in his combat webbing. "They're after you. They know you're the one who blew up the shipment." He glanced over at the window. The enforcers' shouting was getting louder. "Yeah, I kind of got that impression." "When I said you should stand up to them, this isn't exactly what I had in mind." "Well, what the hell did you have in mind?" He shook his head. "More importantly, you need to go to ground. If they trace you through me..." "I'll be fine. Just worry about getting out of here." "Already working on it." He tried to calm his breathing. "Look, sorry about before. I'm just a little stressed right now." "No kidding. How are you on Smoothers? Have you dosed today?" "I've got my stash with me. Not a whole lot of room to be popping one now though. I'll be fine. Just make sure you keep an eye out for these scumbags." He was out of time. "I just wanted to talk is all. I... uh, look, just sorry to make you worry." "Whatever you're about to do..." "Can't be anymore nuts than what I did this morning." "Just stay safe." "You know me." He smiled, in spite of himself. "Yeah. That's the problem." "Hey, Cass, I..." The words caught in his throat. His mouth twitched slightly and he killed the channel before he could start to stutter. Leaning back against the wall, he sighed and steadied his breathing. His gauntlets flexed against the reassuring grip of his shotgun. Beneath him, the enforcers would be ready to make their move. Right on time. He was ready to move, too. From here until whenever this latest tunnel ended, there was just him and the people trying to kill him. Like always. His helmet's motion tracker pinged. Renewed fear coursed through his arms. Fear and anticipation. Stray bared his teeth in a cruel smile and prepared to go to work. *** The Syndicate team moved at Ger 'Hullen's command. The humans in the lead blasted through the door and motioned a trio of shield-bearing Kig-Yar inside. They darted inside, followed by humans who aimed their rifles through the slits in the energy shields. Ger nodded approvingly and strode forward, motioning for the rest of the enforcers to follow him inside. He was only a few paces from the door when the blasts shook the building. Fire flashed in the windows followed by the screams of the enforcers inside. One of the humans staggered outside, slapping at flames on his leg as if oblivious to the fact that his other arm had been blown clean off. "Forward!" Ger bellowed at the other enforcers. "All of you, inside!" The enforcers charged in, trampling over the bodies of the fallen in their rush to swarm the building. From the buildings above, the sharpshooters peppered the building with indiscriminate fire. Over the sound of the shouting and gunfire, Ger could hear something else. The distant booming sound of a shotgun... "He's trying to break out through the rear," he snapped at Ramos. "All of you, follow me!" They pushed through the alley beside the building, coming out into a scene of carnage. The bodies of the team meant to cordon off the buildings rear entrance lay slumped across the ground, blood streaming out onto the pavement. One human enforcer was still left standing, clutching at a wound in his shoulder and staring blankly at the wall in front of him. "What happened here?" Ger demanded. "Why didn't you stop him?" "Blew right through us," the enforcer muttered. "Was gone before... before..." Fighting back a snarl of frustration, Ger drew his plasma pistol and shot the survivor dead. It was a more productive use of his energy than bellowing in rage. "'A nobody,' you said," he growled at Ramos, who was staring at the bodies in shock. "This was supposed to be simple. Now he has escaped." "So, what do we do now?" Ramos asked, eyeing Ger's plasma pistol warily. "Now? Now we chase him until he can't run anymore. We do not rest until he dies. A shame your enforcers didn't do a better job, Ramos. This job of yours just lengthened. Considerably." Ger turned away in disgust. "Get these vermin chasing after him. And call in more of them. I will lead this search personally." He strode back down the alley, then turned back to the human enforcer. "And get me Ro'nin." The impulsive rage was subsiding and now Ger found himself realizing that he was almost enjoying this Stray's escape. Hunting a dangerous prey was far more enjoyable than finishing off a cornered rat. Perhaps there would be some worth to this task of his after all. Chapter One: The Farm A rooster's shrill crow filled the room. Zoey Hunsinger groaned and rolled over in bed, trying to shut out the obnoxious crowing. Not an easy task, considering it was coming from her nightstand. Her alarm had gone off half an hour early—her mother's doing, she decided blearily, smacking the crowing chatter set with an unsteady hand. That bought her a few minutes of respite before the alarm went off again. Eyes squeezed closed against the infernal crowing, Zoey reached over to hit the chatter again. Just a few more minutes... The door to her room slid open and Zoey's heart sank. There was no getting out of it now. She squeezed her eyes closed even tighter, anticipating the moment when the switch would be flipped and the world would be flooded with light. She winced and covered her face as the prediction came true. "Come on, Zoey," her father said from the doorway. "Out of bed." "'s Dad." "I mean it. Get up and don't make me come back in here." "'s Dad." Her father's footsteps receded. Zoey rolled over and pressed her face against her pillow, trying to shut out the light. It was so tempting to just pull her covers up and go back to sleep. But there was no getting out of this, just like every morning. As if to underline that reality, her alarm went off again. Zoey slid out of bed and onto the cold floor, venting her irritation by slapping the chatter set again on her way to the bathroom. *** "Well, look who's up." Lily Hunsinger looked up from her datapad as Zoey entered the kitchen. "This has to be a record for you." "Ha ha," Zoey grumbled, sliding into a chair beside her mother. "You didn't have to mess with my alarm." "Can't argue with results," Lily replied with a shrug, turning back to her datapad. "Besides, you're the one who said she wanted to help out with more chores. George, are we eating this morning or what?" "Working on it." Zoey's father stood at the counter, peering intently down at the plates assembled before him. He had upended a box of meal packs and was busy assembling their contents into the morning's breakfast. "You can have your meal now or you can wait a bit longer and actually enjoy it. It's not my fault Raheej can't be bothered to get his stock from New Tyne. This imported garbage is disgusting." "And if didn't import, you'd be complaining about the higher prices. It's breakfast; we just need something to get us through the morning. Now hurry up and get me my food." "I can wait a bit," Zoey said quickly. She couldn't stand the stale taste of the freeze-dried rations that came in the meal packs. She wasn't entirely sure how he did it, but her father's careful portioning somehow made them taste edible. "See? At least one of you has some culinary appreciation." George went back to frowning at the food. "Thousands of farmers across this planet growing food and it's still cheaper to import from Talitsa. How does that even work?" "Trade deals," Lily said knowingly. "No one wants to go back to kowtowing to Earth, so we independents have to stick together. They explain all this stuff every time at the farm committee meetings, if you'd ever bother to go. That's why we're expanding the farms now. They're even calling in experts from New Tyne to oversee the field expansion." "I'll keep that in mind next time there's an election," George grumbled. "I don't remember ever having this trouble before the war, and I grew up as far from Earth as you can get." "You grew up on a moon that was practically swimming in Earth's credits. Believe me, things were even worse than this on Harvest. At least here we get to keep some of the crops. Back then the agriculture laws took every stock of grain we grew." "If you say so. As long as those New Tyne observers keep their rhetoric to themselves. The last ones that came out here were just a bunch of Innie recruiters." "Those 'Innie recruiters' are the ones who keep the aliens from rolling in here and taking over. You think the oonskies are the only ones who'd love to muscle in here?" "They're welcome to whatever cause they want to fight for, as long as they keep it off our land. If I wanted people bothering me over offworld nonsense, I'd have stayed on Iskander." Zoey leaned back in her chair, tuning out her parents. They always got to talking about politics she didn't understand in the morning, usually sparked by the news pamphlets her mother liked to download onto her datapad. Zoey vaguely understood that there was always trouble with Earth; rich military types trying to make farmers like her parents follow a bunch of stupid rules. Here on Venezia they were free from all those rules, at least according to her mother. Her father had his own opinions on the matter, but he usually stopped short of a full-on argument with Lily. George slid a plate in front of Zoey. "Eat up," he advised. "Busy day ahead of us." Under the table Thune, the family's lanky, aging dog, sat up and whined expectantly. "Is Brian on his way?" George asked Lily. "If that man thinks he can show up two hours late every day and still get paid, he has another thing coming." Lily adjusted the screen on her datapad, lips pursed in annoyance. "If you want to fire him so badly, do it. Just don't expect me to start taking on extra chores when you can't find another worker to replace him. Labor isn't exactly easy to come by out here. Especially now that everyone seems to be moving to the other side of the planet." "The rate Brian works, we might actually get more work done without him. Sometimes I think Zoey contributes more, and she's also doing schoolwork. Not to mention getting paid less." "I'd do more work if you made my allowance bigger," Zoey said quickly, looking up from her meal. "I'm sure you would, sweetie," Lily said, reaching over to run an affectionate hand through her daughter's messy red hair. "But you do quite enough around here as it is. George, I'll stay here and wait for Brian to show up, then move out to the fields to check on the area they're looking to expand. You go ahead and take Zoey out to look over those harvesters we've been having troubles with." George frowned. "I think that maybe I should wait for Brian..." "Not with the mood you're in. I'll... impress on him the need to be a bit more punctual in the future." "If you say so." "I do say so." George shrugged, settling down to his own meal. "Fine, fine. Zoey, wash up once you're finished and get your toolbox. I'll meet you out in front of the shed after I'm done cleaning up in here." This was the life Zoey and her parents lived out here on Venezia's sprawling plains, the only life she had ever known. Day after day, patiently working the land with each coming season. Sometimes it was boring, she had to admit. "The simple life" was what her mother called it. Nothing exciting ever happened out here, nothing like the adventures in the books and movies crammed onto the aging datapad her father had given her for her seventh birthday. But if this life was good enough for her parents, it was good enough for her. As her father liked to say, sometimes the simple life was the best life. *** Box of tools clutched tight against her chest, Zoey hurried outside. The cool morning breeze slid across her face as she stepped out into the yard. Venezia's sun poked a few rays through the clouds gathered overhead, casting light down on the Hunsinger's farm compound and the vast wheat fields that stretched away from it in every direction. A month ago, there were no clouds to speak of and every day was a scorching, sweat-soaked affair. Now the Venezian summer was over and the farmers were busy harvesting what crops still remained. Seeing no sign of her father, Zoey set her toolbox down and scampered over to a large combine machine parked in the center of the compound. She climbed its maintenance ladder with practiced ease; she'd been working on and around these machines all her life. At the top of the combine she leaned down and rested her stomach on its cool surface, relaxing as she gazed out at the fields. This was her favorite time of day: the peaceful early morning before the farm came to life. "Alright, get down from there." Her father waited at the bottom of the combine. "You know I don't like you climbing this thing." "You say that every morning, Dad." She scampered down the ladder to join him. "And every morning you do it anyway." George shook his head. "Between you and your mother, I don't even know why I bother sometimes. Come on, let's get to work." They spent the morning digging through the combine's machinery, replacing rusted wires and corroded parts with spares George had brought over from the machine shed. Zoey watched over her father's shoulder, drinking in every detail. One of these days she'd be made to do a chore like this all on her own, George kept telling her. Zoey was determined to be ready when that day finally came. "Dad," Zoey said, wiping her grease-covered gloves on her overalls. "What you said at breakfast, about not bothering with stuff off the farm..." It was something that had been nagging at her all morning. George looked up from his work and made a face. "Oh, you shouldn't listen to me when I'm talking politics. Gets me agitated, makes me say stupid things." "I'm just wondering, do you think we'll ever leave this place?" "I sure hope not. Your mother and I went through a lot to get this plot of land. Things stay the way they've been going and this place will be fertile for generations." Zoey nodded. It was the answer she'd expected. The answer she wanted. Or at least, most of her wanted. She loved the farm, and this quiet life she lived here with her parents. The adventures from the movies and Waypoint stories were fun to watch and dream about; sometimes, when she thought no one was watching, she went out into the fields with sticks to play make-believe. But in the end, this was a good life. Perhaps not the most exciting one, though... They worked on in silence for a while, kneeling side by side amidst the harvester's inner workings. Zoey passed her father the tools he needed, occasionally wriggling in to deal with components he left aside for her. Every time she finished with a component, George turned away from his own task to check it over, nodding in approval or pointing out areas she had missed. The time slipped away as it always did, passing from one chore to another. After what seemed like no time at all, George was helping a grease-covered Zoey out from under the harvester. He beamed at her through a mask of grease and sweat. "Good work this morning," he told her. She smiled back at him, wiping her brow and rubbing the oil out on her overalls. "I think she'll need a few more sessions," George continued, rubbing the harvester's side. "But we're making good progress. Way better than if we'd called in Huin and her boys to look it over. Cheaper, too. See? There's a lot to be had out of humble work like this." Zoey frowned. "When I asked about leaving, I didn't mean I wanted to go. I was just...asking." George smiled ruefully and laid a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "I know. You'd be a pretty boring kid if you weren't a little interested in what's out there. And I'd be a pretty lame dad if I tried to keep you from dreaming big." He sighed and looked out at the vast fields. "It's something you learn as you get older, but you have to be careful out there. This galaxy's not a nice place, Zoey. It's big and cold and downright unforgiving when you get right down to it. That's why you have to find the small, warm places to keep the people important to you safe." "That's what you and mom did here, isn't it?" "It is." George shook his head. "I know it seems strange to you now, but sometimes the simple life is best." "I like it here. You don't have to worry about me leaving." He squeezed her shoulder. "Of course. I'm not worried. Now come on, let's go find your mother." Chapter Two: Hunters on the Plain Ger 'Hullen scowled down at the gaggle of enforcers as they readied the vehicles around his Wraith. The Syndicate might be powerful, but it saw no need to spare high-quality equipment fora backwater like Venezia. Whatever equipment 'Hullen and the other enforcers didn't supply themselves was secondhand garbage, barely serviceable even on the best of days. The convoy Ger had thrown together--a rag-tag mix of human and Covenant vehicles--had suffered three malfunctions since it had left New Tyne. Now, with Venezia's vast rolling plains stretching out in all directions the Sangheili was acutely aware of just how immense his task really was. Stray could be anywhere. Every moment wasted was another that the quarry used to make his escape. And here Ger was, hamstrung by vehicles so poorly maintained it was a miracle they even moved at all. The communicator on his combat harness crackled. "Almost got it, boss," Ramos reported. "We'll be moving in just a few minutes or so." "We had better be. For your sake." Ger's mandibles quivered in frustration. He was getting tired of issuing empty threats. Ramos was not expendable--at this point, none of the enforcers were. Or at least, there was no room for the kind of examples Ger would be making were he still a Covenant officer. Summary executions did little to impress thugs like this, and bosses like Min Ai did not look kindly on losing more employees than absolutely necessary. A low chuckle issued from a figure standing beside the Wraith. Ger glowered down at the figure, his bad mood darkening. "And just what is so amusing?" he demanded. "Do share the joke." "Oh, nothing much," drawled the only other Sangheili in the convoy, if a creature such as Ro'nin could truly be called a Sangheili. "It's just that you always have such a limited perspective on things." "What do you mean by that?" Ro'nin clicked his mandibles, tilting his head to look lazily up at Ger. "Well, instead of bringing us to a halt every time a Warthog breaks down, perhaps you should send a few of us out to scout ahead. You'd cover more ground that way, and it would certainly be less tedious than having to stop and sit around every few miles." "As if I hadn't already thought of that," Ger snarled impatiently. "You must really think I'm an idiot." "Well, I was trying to be polite, but..." "If I send any of these brainless fools ahead of the main force, their vehicles will break down as soon as they lose sight of the convoy. They will be helpless without us to direct them, and we'll lose even more time retrieving them." "It was just a suggestion," Ro'nin said, folding his arms as he lounged against the side of the Wraith. "Thought I'd try to be helpful. Isn't that why you brought me out here in the first place?" Ro'nin was one of the few other Sangheili on Venezia. The planet might be a hub for interspecies refugees, but most Sangheili were too proud to lower themselves to sheltering on a human backwater. Ger was only here because his keep and bloodline were destroyed during the fighting on Sanghelios, but at least he had the grace to be ashamed of his fall from grace. A creature like Ro'nin relished his diminished status, mocking all the pride and traditions of the Sangheili with his very existence. His armor was battered and unkempt, almost intentionally so, while a plethora of weapons hung loosely from the combat harnesses slung across his body. Compared to Ger, who did his best to keep his appearance and equipment as close to the old Covenant military standards as possible, Ro'nin was a sorry sight indeed. To make matters worse, he always slouched or hunched like some human thug, watching everything around him with eyes that gleamed with cold mockery. Ro'nin was no Sangheili. Even his name was a portmanteau of his old birth name and some obscure human word. He was everything Ger despised about the humans and their Syndicate. This is what they do to us. Strip us of all our pride and turn us into disgusting reflections of themselves. But while Ro'nin disgusted Ger, there was no denying that he was one of the best mercenaries on Venezia. Like Ger, Ro'nin was free to pick and choose his own contracts, only taking on jobs that suited his own interests and sensibilities. His job record for the Syndicate was exceptional. If Ro'nin was tasked with hunting down a target, he caught them. He might be irreverent scum with no pride or honor, but Ro'nin was quite good at his job. Ger pursed his mandibles, then triggered his communicator. “Ramos.” “Yes, boss?” “Send two of the vehicles in best condition ahead. Someone might as well scout the search area while we work here.” “Got it.” A moment later two of the human-made Warthogs peeled away from the convoy and shot off towards the foothills. For a moment they were silhouetted against vast, rolling grasslands. Then they rolled over a hill and disappeared. “And here I thought you wouldn’t take my advice.” Ro’nin’s smirking voice crawled up the side of the Wraith. “Don’t feel too bad about it. Even a keepless wretch like me has a good idea once and a while.” Ger wasn’t entirely sure what circumstances had driven Ro’nin from their people and brought him to a place like Venezia. From what he already knew of the mercenary he was sure it was something obscene. Just a little longer, he told himself. Soon I will return to Sanghelios and leave all of these tiresome vermin behind. The time passed in strained silence, far longer than the “minute or so” Ramos had promised. Once again Ger itched to have a few of the enforcers shot as an example to the others. It took all the restraint he possessed to stay seated in the Wraith, observing the convoy’s plight with imperious rage rather than leaping down and executing those responsible. Ro’nin continued to lean against the assault tank’s hull, amused as ever by the incompetence of the Syndicate thugs. At least I can provide Min Ai a thoroughly detailed report regarding his pathetic excuse of a hunting party. Ger would endure all the frustration of this job if it meant he could relay back to the languid Syndicate flunky just how wanting his operation here on Venezia was. The human criminals loved to boast about how powerful their underworld empire was. Ger wondered how long that arrogance would last if the Syndicate continued fielding sub-par expeditions like this. Great bulk alone does not equate to great power, as any obese human can attest. Ramos broke away from the convoy and approached the Wratih. The human enforcer’s rifle was slung, expression grim. He had worked with Ger enough times to know the Sangheili had little patience for incompetence and empty assurances. “Boss,” Ramos said carefully, craning his neck to stare up at the Wraith. Ger leaned against the tank’s plasma turret, hands folded over each other like a resting predator as he glared down at his subordinate. “We got the Warthog’s working again. Convoy’s ready to move out.” “Are you sure?” Ger demanded archly. “Perhaps you require another minute or so to be sure?” “No, boss. We’re ready.” Ramos was no coward, but he recognized the murderous glint in Ger’s eyes and knew the Sangheili would settle for nothing less than total obedience. “Very well. Your vehicle will take the lead. Contact the two vehicles that went ahead. If they haven’t found anything in all this time I’ll—“ His communicator buzzed. Ger activated it with an irritated flick and found an excited voice yelling in his ear. “Convoy, come in! We’ve got contact!” Ger seized the communicator, body finally coming alive again. “Contact? Is it the target?” “Not sure. Whatever it is, it’s got our other ‘Hog pinned. We’re trying to get a clear shot on it with our rear gun.” “Keep engaging,” Ger snapped. “Do not even think about falling back.” He plugged the communicator into the tactical pad on his wrist, triangulating the sender’s location and generating the transmitting Warthog’s coordinates. He forwarded those coordinates to Ramos and the rest of the convoy’s leadership, then slammed a fist down on the Wraith’s hull. The Kig-Yar mercenary manning the tank’s controls fired up the plasma engines and the Wraith hummed to life beneath him. “The scouts have him,” Ger snapped down at Ro’nin and Ramos. “Get this convoy moving! We’ll converge on him and end this.” As long as Stray was caught on these open plains he’d be easy pickings even for the Syndicate’s thugs. The longer the hunt dragged out the greater chances were he would find some bolt-hole and throw them off the trail. Ger settled back in the Wraith’s turret seat as the tank slid forward across the plain. At times like these, with his fingers curled around the plasma cannon’s firing studs and rushing towards the promise of battle, Ger could forget that he was leading a ragtag collection of second-rate vehicles driven by undisciplined thugs and imagine that he was once again a true officer leading a column of his fellow Sangheili into battle. It was simple pleasures like these that made his life bearable. ---- The heavy rattle of a Warthog’s rear gun hissed across the air as Ger’s Wraith drew near. He saw the Warthog itself a moment later. The human reconnaissance vehicle was perched atop a hill, its gunner firing down the slope in long, drawn out bursts. The Warthog’s other two occupants lay prone in the grass, weapons aimed down at where their partner was shooting. “Find the target!” Ger barked down at his driver. His blood roared in anticipation of a fight but a moment’s surveillance of the situation at the bottom of the slope quieted his excitement. All he could see below was the other scout Warthog, flipped over on its side with flames licking at the hood. He could just make out the dark shapes of bodies lying beside it. “Hold your fire,” he snapped down at the driver. Without waiting for a response he clambered down from the Wraith and strode over to the surviving Warthog. The gunner caught sight of him and froze. His companions looked up at him in confusion, then followed his gaze over to the approaching Ger and scrambled to their feet. Ger approached the nearest enforcer, a grimy-faced human female. “Well?” he demanded. “Is he down there?” The female blanched. “Well—I mean, we think…” “One vehicle destroyed and you don’t even know for certain where he is?” Ger reached for the plasma repeater on his back and the female flinched. He shook his head in disgust, unslinging the weapon and advancing down the hill. “Cover me,” he ordered. “But if one of your bullets so much as grazes my shields, I’ll have the whole convoy use you for target practice.” Even before he reached the bottom he could tell Stray was long gone. The smoldering Warthog had been struck by some sort of explosive, blasting its front wheels clean off and leaving its passengers easy pickings for anyone with a weapon and half a brain. Two of the three enforcers had been humans. One lay a few feet up the slope of another hill, her torso mangled by some sort of heavy weapon impact. The other was tangled amidst the Warthog’s wreckage, a red pulp where its head should be. The third enforcer was Kig-Yar. Its body was marked by several deep blade marks—Ger couldn’t tell exactly which blow had killed it, only that it had been hacked to pieces with impressive savagery. “You got anything, boss?” Ramos was jogging down the hill, a squad of enforcers at his back. The lanky figure of Ro’nin picked its way slowly down behind them. Ger was about to snap back an irritable response when he caught sight of something in the grass some ways off from the wrecked Warthog. Something red poked out from the stalks of green and brown; a moment’s investigation revealed it to be blood. Human blood. The blood was clearly not from either of the two dead humans. It led away, up the hill from the crash site and off into the plains. Ger traced the trail a moment longer, then turned back to the enforcers. His earlier exasperation was gone. He should be enraged that his subordinates had once again let Stray slip away, but instead he felt an exhilaration he hadn’t felt in years. The ruined Warthog, the mangled corpses, the trail of a wounded fugitive—this was a true battlefield. “Stray is wounded,” he announced, indicating the blood trail. “He’ll need to seek shelter, and without a vehicle he won’t get far. I want patrols investigating every village, every homestead, every farm in this area. Tell the locals we’ll reward anyone who gives him up.” He jabbed a finger at Ro’nin. “And you,” he ordered. “Get me in contact with Chieftain Mantellus. I have need of him and his trackers.” ---- “Diana, come in.” Nothing on the coms. The pain in his side was getting worse with every step he took. “Diana, if you’re just pretending you can’t hear, very funny, now come in—shit.” Still nothing. He was bleeding badly, the side of his armor wet and warm and glistening. He was lucky to be alive at all. He’d seen the .50 caliber rounds of a Warthog’s turret blast human bodies apart, ignoring armor and flesh and bone as it turned the living into puffs of red mist. But his armor and his body were different. Instead of being torn in half he simply took the wound and kept going. But going for how much farther? He’d killed three. It didn’t matter. His pursuers would keep coming no matter how many of them he killed. The Syndicate would not let up the hunt until he was dead. Stupid to get into this, so stupid. But he wasn’t going to die. Of that, if nothing else, he was certain. No matter how much pain, no matter how many people he had to kill, he was not going to die. But no need to keep being stupid, is there? He needed to go to ground. The sun was setting over the plains. The hunt would continue, even at night, but it would be slower, clumsier. He could use that extra time to recuperate and figure out what the next move was. Stray pulled up a map of the area on his helmet’s HUD. There was a small farm just a few miles west, not big enough for a true hiding place but also not big enough to draw too much attention. And right now he didn’t have the luxury of picking and choosing. He turned and limped west, the agony of each step reminding him that he was still alive. They hadn’t caught him yet. Chapter Three: Beast From Water George Hunsinger frowned down at his datapad. His finger hovered above the screen, dipping momentarily every once in a while to flick the device and change screens on whatever he was reading. Zoey eyed him curiously over her bowl of cereal. “Something wrong, Dad?” Her father made a face. “It’s nothing. Just the usual nonsense coming out of New Tyne.” Lily poked her head into the kitchen, halfway through donning a grimy smock as she prepared to head out into the fields. “Oh really? How many oonskie spies did they catch this week?” “About fifteen or so,” George replied with a wry grin. “Looks like they busted a whole ring this time. UNSC can’t seem to figure out we don’t take kindly to being sabotaged. Lucky for us we have our friends from the glorious Insurrection to protect our freedoms.” Lily shot her husband an irritated look but laughed all the same. Zoey joined in laughing as well though she wasn’t entirely sure what the joke was. The news out of New Tyne was always reports of captured spies and Earth sympathizers. Her father insisted that it was all a bunch of propaganda to make farmers like them respect the militias more, but at least they made the news exciting. The only stories that ever came from the other farms were crop reports and warnings about pests in the fields. “Eat up,” George told Zoey when the laughter subsided. “We’ve got a busy day ahead of us. Two of the harvesters broke down yesterday. You know what that means.” “Yeah.” Zoey dipped a spoon into her cereal dejectedly. Broken harvesters meant a day spent crouching beneath the sun with her hands buried in a crop machine’s engine, drenched in sweat and doing her best to pay attention to her father’s instructions. It was hardly the worst job on the farm but it was nothing to get excited about either. “Are you sure you need her for that?” Lily asked from the entrance. Thune sensed that someone was about to leave the homestead and trotted over to the door with an excited whine. “She needs to get some schoolwork done at some point this harvest. Classes resume in two weeks and she’s barely touched her studies.” Zoey suppressed a groan. If there was anything worse than farm work it was school. She hated the musty little trailer where the local farm children took their lessons. None of the classes were any fun at all and the other kids had nothing to talk about except the goings-on at their own farms. She’d gladly take a day full of sweaty field chores over that air-conditioned drudgery. “Two harvesters down,” George reminded his wife. “And the other two need maintenance. We can’t afford having them out of commission this close to harvest and you’re tied up spraying down the south fields. The way I see it, I can have one up and running by midday and then take a look at the ones that work. Zoey can handle the other one herself.” She blinked, a spoonful of cereal halfway into her mouth. Work on a harvester by herself? She’d never done anything like that without her father’s supervision. George caught her gaze and grinned. “You’ve really impressed me with the last few ones we’ve worked on together. I think it’s time you took one on without me breathing down your neck.” A thrill rushed through her. “By myself? Do you really mean it?” “I never joke when it comes to the farm. I wouldn’t put you up to it if I didn’t think you could do the job.” He narrowed his eyes with mock severity. “But mess that harvester up more than it already is and you can forget about allowance for the rest of the year. And I’ll be checking on your progress at noon, so you’d best hurry up and get working out there.” The rest of Zoey’s cereal vanished in a heartbeat and a moment later she was rushing back to her room to gather her tools. ---- Two hours later, Zoey was beginning to rethink her earlier enthusiasm. She knelt in the dirt beside the harvester’s front wheels as the sun beat down on her from the cloudless sky. Her clothes were already drenched in sweat and her arms ached from the effort of keeping tools in line with the machine’s internal components. She’d managed to scrape herself raw in three separate places struggling to get at the harvester’s faulty components. Only the fear of disappointing her father kept her working. It wasn’t that she couldn’t handle the strain of farm work. Zoey had labored happily in her parents’ fields for as long as she could remember, helping with everything from vehicle maintenance to pest control to the harvest itself. A day without a few scrapes and a bucket full of sweat was a day she’d clearly not been working hard enough. But usually George or Lily was with her, overseeing her work and letting her know where she was succeeding and what she was doing wrong. Without one of her parents to monitor her progress, Zoey had no way of knowing if she’d gotten anywhere at all in the two hours spent slaving over the harvester. For all she knew it was still just as broken as when she’d started. She strained too far to reach the compressor she was working on and lost her grip on her wrench. With a groan she slumped back on her heels, wondering if it was even worth the effort to go fumbling into the harvester to retrieve the lost tool. Biting her lip in frustration, Zoey grabbed her canteen and took several irritated gulps. The harvester loomed above her like a giant carved boulder, silently daring her to keep up her futile efforts to get it running again. She glared up at it for a moment before looking back down at the schematics on her datapad. There had to be something she was doing right. She’d done plenty of repairs like this before, when her father and mother were watching. I can’t just freak out every time they aren’t there to tell me what to do. I have to show them I’m fine on my own. Her father trusted her to get this done right on her own. There had to be a way… The sweat was everywhere—on her clothes, her forehead, her hair. She shook herself like a dog, shoving her hands down her grimy work jumpsuit to scratch at itches on her arms. Even more itches broke out along her back and she moaned with frustration. This was no good. She wouldn’t get anywhere with the harvester, upset as she was. Zoey jumped to her feet, overflowing with pent up irritation. She threw her tools on the ground and kicked dirt up at the harvester’s wheel. When that didn’t satisfy her anger she lashed out with a punch, then yelped as her hand scraped against the hard wheel. She retreated away from the harvester, nursing her stinging knuckles. This is stupid. I have to calm down. She’d just have to wait until her father came to check on her. Then she’d ask him for help and he’d walk her through the repairs. But he’ll be so disappointed. He thought I could do this on my own. The thought made her scrapes sting even more. But maybe she could at least show that she tried. He’d certainly think better of her if he found her hard at work instead of simply pouting beneath the harvester. She needed to calm down and keep working. But first, to cool down. The Hunsinger farm was split into four crop wheat fields, an enormous serrated square with their homestead and barns in the center. Zoey and her harvester were in the southernmost field. The Hunsinger property ended with the wheat fields. The rolling Venezian plains beyond those belonged to nobody, a vast expanse of free nature that went on until it hit another family’s farmland. A small river cut through the plain behind the southern field, its banks surrounded by a perimeter of untended, wild wheat stalks sprouted from seed overflow. Zoey had spent hours playing in that river—it was nice and secluded, a perfect sanctuary from the busy farm life. I’ll just head down there real fast. Take a quick dip. She’d really catch it if her parents caught her taking a break when there were chores to be done, but she’d be back before anyone came to check on her. Just a quick splash in the water to cool down. She wouldn’t even take her clothes off. Leaving her tools behind, Zoey ducked beneath the harvester and pushed her way through the wheat field. A perimeter sensor system was in place around the fields but the Hunsingers only ever turned it on at night when no one was in the fields. Zoey stepped around one of the security nodes, then pushed her way through the wild grove toward the river. She didn’t go very far in. Just a quick dip, she reminded herself. She’d just splash some water over herself to cool her aches and itches, then hurry on back to keep working on the harvester until her father came by. She couldn’t let anything distract her or keep her here too long… The farm girl stopped short halfway through the grove. Something was off about the riverbank today. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what was wrong, but everything seemed quieter somehow. Like the river itself was holding its breath. A strange feeling of dread crept up Zoey’s spine and she had to fight down the urge to rush back into the field. What’s wrong with me? She’d been down here thousands of times and not once felt this way. What was this gripping sense of foreboding that engulfed her now? She forced herself to press on towards the riverbank, pushing stalks of wheat aside and stepping out towards the water. And then she saw the helmet. Zoey froze, finding herself staring down at a strange-looking helmet with a broad, dented visor sitting in the dirt beside the river. The visor was battered and pitted, its surface the dull color of rotted wood. The helmet’s frame seemed to have once been painted a dark green, but that uniform color was corroded and splotched all over with patches of ugly brown and red. The visor stared up at her, a mouthless, faceless gaze that somehow made her think it could see right through her all the same. Something splashed in the water nearby. Zoey turned to see what had made the noise and there he was. For a moment she thought she was looking at some strange, hunched animal. A tangled mop of black hair bobbed against the water’s surface attached to a battered carapace that took Zoey several moments to recognize as armor. It took her even longer to realize that she was looking at a human. The strange armored figure knelt on the riverbank, head bowed low before the water. It reached into the gentle current, cupping its hands and then splashing water across its face. It repeated this gesture several times; as its arms moved Zoey saw bright crimson stains across its side. Blood ran down its chest, staining its gauntleted hands, its legs, even the ground beside it. As the stranger dipped its hand into the water again, pale ribbons of blood drifted away with the current. Zoey must have gasped or made some sort of noise, for the stranger jerked its head towards her. Its eyes flashed and in the next instant it had a pistol out and pointed directly at her chest. Zoey froze, desperately trying to understand what was going on. “Hands,” the stranger ordered and Zoey realized it was male. His voice was oddly pitched—as if someone took the high-pitched whine of an adolescent and fused it with the gravely rasp of a lung-stricken adult. “Now.” She didn’t move. What was happening here? She’d just come down to the river like she’d done so many times before. Now there was a gun trained on her heart. “Your hands!” he snarled, finger curling around the pistol’s trigger. “Get them up where I can see them. Now!” Hands trembling with fear, Zoey raised her arms above her head. In a flash the stranger bounded over to her, one hand closing down on her collar with a vice-like grip. She struggled to free herself but found that she couldn’t so much as budge the stranger’s hold. The pistol came forward, its barrel jabbing into her side before working its way upwards. Zoey cried out and recoiled as the gun prodded her chest and armpits but the stranger did not relent. He forced her down on her knees, probing at her legs with an armored boot before he was completely satisfied. The armored stranger pushed her away and she fell on her back, staring up at him from the dirt. He pointed the pistol at her head. “No weapons,” the stranger said, sounding more surprised than menacing. Not that he needed to sound threatening, not with his pistol a foot away from Zoey’s forehead. “No bombs either. They just pay you to poke around, scout things out?” Zoey couldn’t make any sense of what he was talking about. Now that he was standing above her she had the chance to examine his face more closely. She was surprised to realize that he was young, or at least younger than she’d thought. His rough, angry face could almost have belonged to any one of the older farm boys her parents sometimes brought on to help with the harvest. Maybe if someone took one of those boys, dunked his head in dirt and then pummeled his face until its features looked as dented and battered as the armor he wore. “Please,” she heard herself whimper. “I don’t know what you mean. No one sent me. Please don’t shoot. I live here!” The battered young man cocked his head slightly, as if he were the one having trouble understanding. A sudden spasm coursed through his body and he stumbled, free hand grabbing at his bloody side. Zoey recoiled as he turned his angry, quivering eyes back towards her. His teeth bared in a feral snarl, but then quickly curved into a narrow, thoughtful smile. “Live here?” he asked. He jerked his head back toward the fields. “You mean this is your farm?” “Yes,” Zoey said carefully. She tried to duck her head low, get it away from the looming gun barrel. “I mean, it’s my parents’ farm. They own it. We own it. Please don’t shoot.” “Alright,” the stranger muttered, more to himself than Zoey. He lowered the pistol and crouched in front of her, bringing his grimy, battered face up close to hers. She fought back the urge to recoil in disgust. “Listen up,” the stranger told her. “You go get one of your parents. Not both, just one. You bring them right back here. No weapons, no dogs, no vehicles, nothing. Then we’ll sort this all out. You do anything besides that and I’ll shoot you and anyone you brought with you. Got it?” Zoey nodded frantically. “Good.” The stranger’s gray eyes narrowed further, like some predator playing with its prey. “You’d better get moving. You’ve got five minutes to get back here before I come looking for you. You really don’t want that.” He backed away and gave Zoey the space she needed to wriggle away. She turned and sprinted back towards the fields, already desperately calling out for her father. Behind her the stranger sat back on his haunches, smiling in a way that didn’t quite meet his eyes. Chapter Four: Dinner Guest